


the one with the sick boy.

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: this is nothing but sheer, unadulterated fluff. Andrew is sick, and you take care of him.(gender unspecified OC.)
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	the one with the sick boy.

**Author's Note:**

> somewhat hesitantly, I can now be found over on tumblr - @shepardandsailor. find bits of ideas that don't make it to here, make a request, or just ramble in my general direction. whatever floats your boat.

//

He was still all out of sorts, not quite used to being still, yet. Not quite used to not having any place he needed to be, yet. But that was only half of the reason he was moping around the place. The rest of the reason was that he was sick, and, frankly, he was far from pleased with himself about it.

“… Andy?” 

“Hmm?” 

He’d paced by you three times already this morning. When you’d got up, you’d tried in vain to convince him to stay in bed, to have a lie in — to just, for the love of god, please, partake in a little rest and recuperation — but he had lovingly declined. He had, in fact, insisted that he get up with you, which he did do, and then, unbeknownst to yourself while you were in the shower, he’d also set about making some toast (for you) and a pot of coffee (for you both).

He looked like the definition of sweetness wrapped like he was in a cardigan and sweats, and if you didn’t know better, you would have melted at the sheer hint of his pale face and sad, puppy-dog eyes. But alas, you knew what he was up to — you knew exactly what it was he was trying to do. He was trying to distract you from your work so that he could have you to himself. And you knew that because sick Andy was also predictable Andy, and that meant you were in for a hearty dose of grumpy Andy and clingy Andy, too. 

“Why don’t you go back to bed for a while? I’ll come up when I’m done with all this.” You took a sip of your still-warm coffee and hoped to yourself that he’d take your advice, partly because the sight of him so deflated and unwell distracted you as much as it upset you. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

For the briefest of moments, you were sure he was about to relent — that is, until he rasped out, “I’m not tired, honey,” and dropped into the chair next to yours and folded himself over the top of the table.

All you could do was offer a shrug and turn your eyes back to your computer and the seemingly never-ending list of emails clogging up the screen and your inbox. “You are tired, Andy.” You didn’t look up at him when you spoke this time, but you knew he was listening to you. “And you are sick. Laryngitis is no joke.”

He sighed, his heavy head resting on his arms, his face hidden behind a veil of his bedhead. “I know that.”

“I know you know that. I just wish you’d give yourself a break.” He peered up at you through his dark lashes, and you met his gaze over the top of your laptop. “I worry, you know.”

“I know…” He winced, the sorry look on his face tugging at your heart. “I’m sorry.”

“Babe,” You gave in, shutting your glaring laptop screen and reaching out to him, your fingertips tracing the weary shadows casting over his handsome face. “don’t be sorry.” He pressed a soft kiss to the palm of your hand, nuzzling into the warmth of you and letting his heavy eyes fall shut. “I just want you to be okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes watery and green, and then shuffled closer to you still. You gathered him up as best you could with a computer in the way and a table between you, his lanky self splayed across the cool wood and you nestled over the cosiness of him, his wild mane and woolly cardigan.

“…I do feel like absolute shit.” He admitted finally with a mumble, his head falling just far enough to the side that you could feel his breath whispering across your skin. You couldn’t help the chuckle that came next, made all the worse by the indignant look spreading sleepily over his face. 

“I know that,” You smiled, happily, hopelessly, and completely taken with him, and grabbed him by the chin, planting a quick kiss on his scruffy cheek before you pulled him up with you to stand. “I’ve just been waiting for you to accept it.”

“Accept it?”

“Yeah, you know—“ You grinned again, tugging him with you by the hand as you headed off back toward the doorway, the stairs, the bedroom, and the bed that was just there beyond, unmade and nest-like and waiting. “For you to come to terms with the fact that you are, my love, but a human. And a sick and sorry one, at that.”

He chuckled as you pushed him gently towards the mound of softness atop the bed, managing to resist a fit of coughs for a weary groan into your pillow (dragged over to his side of the bed), instead. 

“Want tea?” You brushed a stray ringlet from his pale face and dragged the blanket up and over him, trying to navigate around his hand tethered as it was to yours.

“Want you,” He frowned and tried to pull you down with him.

“But you also want tea, right?”

“Yeah,” He frowned, knowing he was rapidly losing the fight against your soothing and the tiredness that was consuming him. “Yes, please. Tea, please.”

You knew he wouldn’t be awake by the time you got back, so you pressed a kiss to his forehead and reminded him before you left, that he was loved. 

“You too,” He mumbled, finally letting go of your hand. “And thank you.”

\\\


End file.
